Page 97 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
I don't owe him that grace.
Instead, I pull out the chair opposite him and sit.
Let the silence stretch between us like wire.
"You left clean," I say finally. "You were given a corridor, a new name. Luca even let you keep your cut."
He laughs, but there's no joy in it. "And you think that bought me silence? Loyalty? Come on, Moretti. You know better. You think any of this is clean? You think the old man still runs things like he did ten years ago? Half your house is rotting from the inside out, and the rest of you are too loyal to smell the stink."
I keep my face still. He's trying to draw blood. He won't.
"Who are you feeding?"
"I don't know their names," he says with a shrug. "They pay in euros and secrets. I trade what I know, they leave me be. You're not the only ones with enemies, Enzo. There's more than one family who wants to see yours bleed."
I lean forward. "And what exactly have you given them?"
He smirks. "Shipping manifests. Guard rotations. A few names. Nothing that hurt. Yet."
The last word hangs there as I rise, smooth my jacket, glance once at the window where the light has turned hot and golden, cutting across the floor in long bars.
"You're going to tell me the names."
"Or what?" He smiles wider now, but it's thin. "You going to kill me before or after you realize your house is already burning?"
I don't speak.
I walk around the table and draw the pistol, the weight of it easy in my hand, familiar like a prayer.
I press the barrel to the back of his head and feel his breath catch.
"Three names. That's all I want."
He says nothing for a beat. Then, slowly, he speaks.
"Luciano. Ortega. Maybe Del Toro."
I frown. All names I've heard before, but the last one is wrong. Del Toro's dead. Killed in a port fire two months ago.
Either Stefano's bluffing, or someone's been feeding him ghosts.
I pull the gun back slightly.
"Who told you Del Toro was still alive?"
He shifts, not quite a flinch, more like a test of boundaries.
"Someone close to you. Said things weren't like they used to be. Said Luca's grip is slipping. That there are...whispers."
There it is.
I step back. Lower the gun.
He sees the shift and lets out a long breath, but it's not relief. It's pride.
He thinks he's won something.
"You don't believe me," he says.
